University of Virginia Library

Unto the Right Honourable, JOHN Lord GRAY.

Hope.
Proceed, go on, and let the World once view
Dame Nature's Gifts she hath bestow'd on you;
Why should that Talent she so frankly gave,
Be lost by thee? In this you play the Knave.

Fear.
Beware, take Heed, consider what you do;
What cares the World for ought perform'd by you?
Poor are your Parts, your Fortune mean and low,
And Money always makes the Mare to go.
Your vain Ambition puffs you up to stretch,
And striving, fain would rax above your Reach;
Fools Haste makes waste, so will it fare with you;
'Tis often seen, a poor Man's Friends are few.

Hope.
Sure Heav'n and Nature something has design'd,
In raising you above the vulgar Kind;
Without th' Advantage of an Education,
Such ne'er was seen since Scotland was a Nation:
Shake off dull Fears, apply the Great and Good,
Sure Fate will favour you, you may conclude.

Fear.
Who climbs too rash, may catch a Fall at last;
He must run slow at length who runs too fast.
Ye little know what Straits an Author's in;
Your Loss comes first, and yet no Hopes to win.
Expence and Travel you must undergo,
Ere ye accomplish't; and yourself may know
How insufficient, poor and indigent
You are for that on which your Mind is bent.

Hope.
Tush, senseless Fears, take Courage and once try,
There's no Assurance till you first essay;
Cowards dy of Fear, while yet they have no Cause,
He wins no Honour who from Fortune Flies;
He that's faint hearted wins no Lady fair,
Heav'n gives no Grace, unless 'tis sought by Pray'r.
Apply the Gen'rous, then; when they refuse,
Drop all your Hopes, but never blame your Muse,
Indulgent Heav'n who gave the Gift to thee,
Rules over Fate, gives Fortune her Decree:
Both are connected, and will surely move
Men to befriend, and of thy Muse approve,
And Criticks Banter turn to Sympathy;
Take Courage therefore, and be frank and try.
Experience she can speak for me, and tell
You was encourag'd, let true Hope prevail,
And banish Fear; that slavish Fear which racks
Your purest Fancy, and your Mind distracts:
Be of good Cheer, enjoy what Heav'n thee gave,
Your Muse will shine among the Great and Brave.

TO The Author, on his Collection of Miscellany Poems.

I have, my Friend, your Poems all perus'd,
And, with Attention, on the same have mus'd.
Do you incline my Sentiments, that I
Should thereanent express impartially?
If so, to please you, them I'll here rehearse
Ingenuously, tho' in rude Dogrel Verse.
Beauties and Faults do both in them appear;
Many the first, the last but few and rare.
But, taken in the Complex, I avow,
They're excellent, and must give you your Due.
Your pregnant Fancy tow'reth far above
That Sphere in which mean rhyming Scriblers move.
Your Stile's polite, refin'd and elegant,
Surpassing far their silly vulgar Cant.
And (which the highest Praises doth deserve)
You your Decorum handsomely observe.
I see Melpomene with Grief distrest,
All bath'd in Tears, with Sighs and Groans opprest;
While in sad Lays you mournfully deplore
Th' unhappy Fate of good and great Strathmore.
Or when Monorgan's much lamented Death,
She seems to swoon, and pant for lack of Breath,
In Sorrow plung'd, in fable Vesture clad,
Doth droop and languish, mourning for the Dead.
But then, Thalia, in your past'ral Song,
Looks brisk and gay amidst the Sylvian Throng.
Bright chearful Joy shines in her Countenance,
While you in softest Numbers do advance
Agatha's Charms, Smiles, Beauties of that Fair,
And nuptial Blessings of the happy Pair.
When Erato takes a sublimer Theme,
To raise on Pillars of immortal Fame,
A nodle Hero of great Douglass Name,
Then, in heroick and majestick Strains,
She soars aloft, and leaves the rural Plains.
Thus with your Matter doth your Muse comply,
The greatest Art, methinks, in Poetry.
O had that nat'ral Genius of thine,
Brisk Wit, rich Fancy, which in you combine,
Been polished by lib'ral Education,
You might have prov'd an Honour to our Nation.
Great Tully's Verdict is, without Demur,
Confirm'd in you, POETÆ NASCIMUR.

A COLLECTION OF Scots SONGS, being new Words adapted to old Tunes.

SONG XI. The EDINBURGH Garland.

In fair London City, there lived, of late,
A sweet charming Creature, both comely and neat;
Fair Thisby, by Name, of no mean Degree;
To Edinburgh she came, fair Scotland to see.
She had not been in Edinburgh a Month or thereby,
When Damon, a young Man, there did her espy.
Being wounded by Cupid, he stood in Amaze:
And on that fair Creature did eagerly gaze.
But Venus, with Cunning, makes Friends of strong Foes;
She calls the blind Boy, he runs, and he shows;
I'm ready, dear Mother, to work thy Intent,
My Quiver is full, and my Bow ready bent.
Said she, Go to Paphas, and draw to the North,
And ettle thou for Edinburgh, whilk stands upon Forth;
There Thisby, a Maiden, pray make her to yield,
And make thou young Damon to conquer the Field.
No sooner had she spoke, but away he did fly,
And wounded the Maiden just in her Right-eye.
Whilk made her to mourn, and sore to lament;
And with her own Fortune to seem discontent.
To extinguish Love's Flames, she oft did repair
To Fields and green Meadows to take the sweet Air;
Among the pleasant Flowers it was her Delight
To walk ilka Morning, and eke ilka Night.
Young Damon likewise, he was of the same Mind;
Ay where lonesome Valleys or Groves he did find,
He'd walk in them, rather than walk in the Street,
Till he, on an Evening, his Thisby did meet.
When, as he beheld her, transported was he,
And doubted in his Mind, if that could be she.
At last he cry'd out to the Powers that's above,
Reveal unto me, if this be my Love.
At last he came near her, and found it was she,
And cry'd, in a Rapture, Dear, welcome to me.
How happy, how pleasant will this Meeting prove,
If you will but grant me, dear Thisby, thy Love?
'Twixt Modesty and Love, she smilingly said,
Dear Damon, believe me, as I am a Maid,
I hate all the Ways of false Lovers; begone,
And no more with Policy to me make thy Moan.
Said he, with a Sigh, great Jove knows my Mind,
To no false Intention I ever was inclin'd.
The first Time I saw thee, Love wounded me sore,
By Degrees, ever since, it still grows the more.
Now if you reject me, dear Thisby, I'm gone;
In some lonesome Desart, till Death, I will moan:
No Pleasure nor Comfort, for ever I'll see,
If you be so cruel, dear Thisby, to me.
The Maid then appeared to be at a Stand;
She said unto Damon, Now I understand,
Thy Love it is real; I'll no more be coy,
But ever be willing to complete thy Joy.
But unto London City, To-morrow, by Day,
My Father is preparing to go on his Way:
A Letter you may send, if you hope to come Speed,
Or in my Love and Fortune design to succeed.
And as for Direction to find the Abode
Of Thisby, thy Dear, remark by the Road,
By sweet flowing Thames, near hand by the Bridge,
At my Chamber-Window, a Bird in a Cadge.
The sweet smelling Bay grows green in the Close,
With a Picture on the Gate, which holds a red Rose:
And over the Entry, I'll write this in Gold,
WHO HAS A GOOD ERRAND, TO ENTER BE BOLD.
Said he, Let Presumption obtain but a Kiss
From thy Sugar Lips, to further my Bliss.
To kiss and embrace thee, I never would tire;
And likewise thy Beauty I love to admire.
Love, here is a Ring, I will break it in twain;
One Half I'll present you; and while I remain
Damon to be, the other I will keep,
Till I in thy beautiful Arms do sleep.
Farewel now, sweet Thisby, farewel to my Love;
Farewel, my sweet Charmer, my Joy and my Dove:
May Juno and Iras employ all their Care
To keep thee and guide thee, my sweet charming Fair.
With Hearts full of Woe, they parted in twain,
And wish'd for a Meeting so joyful again.
But, in a short Time, young Damon did write
A Letter, on this Way he did it indite,
“Dear Love, I'm impatient with ardent Desire;
“My Heart, with Affection, doth burn like a Fire.
“To see thee, my Dearest, the Joy of my Heart,
“O! when shall we meet, Love, never to part?
“I fain would come to thee, if certain I were
“Of kind Entertainment from thy Father dear.
“An Answer pray send what's best to be done;
“Pray see if your Parents at all can be won.”
The Letter she received with Smiles and with Tears,
(For Lovers are always possessed with Fears)
She joyed when she saw that his Love was so true;
But thinking on his Absence her Grief did renew.
I dare not, thought she, be so bold to reveal
Our Love to my Father; I must it conceal.
Now, what shall I say, or what can I write
To my lovely Damon, my Joy and Delight?
Just as she was musing, half sunk in Despair,
She fell on a Project to come to her Dear.
She presently wrote what was her Intent,
And seal'd up securely, these Words to him sent:
She said, “Loving Damon, pray chear up thy Heart,
“We shortly shall meet, Love, never to part.
“I have a Design, Love, to see thee with Speed,
“For I am to feign myself to be dead.
“Soon my Burial Rites performed shall be,
“And I in Edinburgh shall cause bury me.
“Yet, fear not the Tidings, dear Damon, she said,
“For, on my honest Word, as I am a Maid,
“I'll still be alive, never doubt it, my Love;
“Be ready to meet me, where I shall soon move.
“Now keep the Intrigue, devulge't to no Man;
“I'll see you, I hope, so soon as I can.
“No more at the present, dear Damon, from me;
“So long as I live, I will constantly be
“Your most loving Thisby, while I have my Breath;
“So, farewel, my Love, I'm yours until Death.”
She went to her Father, and fell on her Knee,
And said, Loving Father, I crave it of thee,
If I dy in fair England, in Scotland I'll ly:
He said, Loving Daughter, perform it shall I.
Next Morning, so soon as Day did appear,
The Virgin to groan they happened to hear.
They ran in a Haste, to see how she did;
But coming to her Chamber, they found her ly dead.
Great Grief and Lamenting there soon did begin;
The News they were sent to the rest of her Kin:
Which made them to mourn with Grief and with Care,
For the Loss of a Creature so virtuous and fair.
Physicians and Surgeons, full many were brought,
To raise her to Life; yet all was but nought.
Their Endeavours prov'd vain; nothing took Effect;
Nor could they more Life to their Daughter expect.
All Things were prepar'd to bring her along;
At ev'ry Stage in the Way, they gave her a Song
Of great Lamentations, with Tears in their Eye,
Till they came to Edinburgh, where she was to ly.
And when they came to Edinburgh, even near to the Port,
A Multitude of People to them did resort;
And some said, I wonder, and do not understand,
Why such a charming Creature left her native Land,
To ly in a strange one; I think that it seems
The Maid has been talking of it in her Dreams,
Whilk made her fond Parents believe it was so,
That she had desired to Scotland to go.
But none like young Damon did wonder and gaze,
Nor yet on the Cause made any such Phrase.
At last he cry'd out, Dear Friends, to be free,
This famous fair Creature I long fain to see.
The Bier soon they opened to let her be seen;
She was pleasant to look on, as e'er she had been.
Said Damon, To me my Mid-wife did impart
The Art of true Physick, by Nature and Heart.
The first Time that I in this World was seen,
My Mid-wife declared, I should not live mean.
But be a great Doctor, the best in this Land;
Now plainly, my Friends, I'll let you understand.
This Virtue she left me, when it was my Will,
On any sweet Creature to lay out my Skill,
So soon as I touch them, they presently live,
And all their lost Senses begin to revive.
But, if I'm not willing, no Man needs me force;
For, if any do it, their Fate will be worse;
They'll surely be hastned to some sudden Death;
By Pond, Knife or Halter, they'll yield up their Breath.
But I'll use my Endeavours to raise her to Life,
If ye will but grant her to me for my Wife.
They all cry'd, 'Tis vain, no such Thing can be;
'Tis fully nine Days since first she did die.
If possible it were, we could not deny
Both her and her Portion thee to satisfy.
But what means this vain Talk? Sure this will not be?
'Tis fully nine Days since first she did die.
Said Damon, Believe me, I'll try all my Skill,
To cure her, and bring her to Life, with good Will
To purchase this bright Beauty is all my Desire;
Take her frae the Bier, and bring her to a Fire.
Young Damon, he call'd for a Chamber, and then
He caus'd all the People go forth, every Man.
Then said he, Dear Thisby, arise now, my Love,
Great Wit has been giv'n thee from Pallas above
With Smiles she salutes him, with Tears in her Eye,
Dear Damon, said she, I was forced to dy
For thy Sake; my Love, I was forced to bear
The Pills of curs'd Physick, to come to my Dear.
Then soon they were married, with Mirth and with Joy;
Free from Vexation, all Care or Annoy.
Her Friends they went back to fair London again,
And all their Lamenting they soon did refrain.
Ye Lovers prove as constant, and bear in your Mind
The Secrets to which your own Hearts are inclin'd.
Example pray take from what I have said;
Prove loyal and constant as this Couple did.
Especially, ye Nymphs, seem never so nice,
But follow this Example, and take my Advice.
Be free from Intentions that's false or yet coy,
And hinder not your Swain's, nor yet your own Joy.

SONG XIX. The FEMALE EPISTLE.

SONG XXII. LOVE's WOUND.

Fair Celia, the pleasant Lass
That haunts in secret Groves,
I met, as I happen'd to pass
That Valley where young Cupid roves.
Amazed I stood, as one dumb,
Confounded I was when I saw
So pleasant a Nymph then to come
Towards me; I backwards did draw.
At last I recover'd again,
My Spirits revived, and I
Found a small faint-sick Pain
Thril in at my Breast softly.
What is it, thought I, that I find
So cruel that wakens a Pain?
Besides, I am vex'd in my Mind
With something I cannot explain.
The fair Nymph, at last, she withdrew,
With Ardour, inspite of my Grief,
I after her quickly flew,
Thinking to find some Relief.
Where go you, sweet Lassie, I said;
She modestly blush'd when I spake,
And screen'd her fair Face with her Plaid;
She answer'd me chastly and snack,
Why do you impose on me so?
What want you; or what do you mean?
I'm wandring this Grove too and fro,
To view the fine Flow'rs on the Green.
I told her, that I was the same;
But Maid, from thy glistering Eye,
A Dart, with a soft burning Flame,
So soon as I spy'd thee did fly,
And lighted in my hollow Breast;
O, Goodness! it tortures me sore:
If this Way it rob me of Rest,
I'll walk in the Forrest no more.
Be you the Physician, sweet Maid;
'Tis you that can give me Relief;
By Love I suppose I'm betray'd,
And hopes you will cure me of Grief.

SONG XXIII. The RESOLUTION.

SONG XXIV. LOVE's INTREATY.

Deear Maidy, if you'd fancy me,
I'd be a happy Creature;
It wounds me deeply when I see
So many a charming Feature
Around thee, makes me to rejoice;
It glades my Spirits, clears my Voice;
Nothing but this can be my Choice,
Dear Maidy I would love thee.
Thou'rt fairer unto me than those
That in Silk Tires are sailing;
Thou'rt sweeter than the sweetest Rose;
Troth thou art far excelling
All Maidens, be they ne'er so fair,
There's none of them that can compare;
For Want of thee let not Despair
Seize on me, my dear Lassie.
I'm fir'd with Love; my panting Heart
Longs for thee, my sweet Treasure;
Grant me a Smile to ease my Smart;
O love me in some Measure.
It is not all the Nymphs around,
That could my tender Heart so wound;
O make thy Love to me abound,
For none I'll prize above thee.
Oh! if I could enjoy thy Charms,
Mixt with thy tender Beauty,
And ly within thy folded Arms,
I think 'twould be my Duty,
To thank the Gods for their Reward,
That made thee thus to have Regard
For me; alas! but I'm so fear'd
That you will never love me,
That every Day it seems a Year
To me, till Love engage thee:
No Comfort to me can appear,
Till you bid me, I pledge thee.
And as a Token of our Bliss,
You give to me a balmy Kiss;
And when I see you profer this,
Then dearly will I love thee.
But, if you slight my Suit, and prove
Ungrateful to thy Lover,
No Woman shall e'er win my Love,
Until I once do prove her.
Yet, unto thee, my charming Fair,
None of your Sex I can compare;
Dear Lassie, let me have a Share
Of thy sweet Charms to prove me.
I'll constant prove; you need not fear
That ever I will alter;
No Woman's Beauty can appear
To make my Fancy faulter:
But true I will for ever be,
As is the Moon unto the Sea;
Nothing shall make us disagree,
But more and more I'll love thee.
Thy rosy Cheeks, and Lips so fine,
Inflames me when I see them,
That all my Senses I do tyne,
Until I once do pree them.
Let not my Praises make thee vain,
So as to leave me with Disdain,
When I'm in Hopes you are my ain,
As an unconstant Lover.

SONG XXV. The PRESUMING LOVER.

O Cupid, so cruel, why dost thou torment
My poor Heart, by piercing it; and my Content
Thou hast taken from me, and left me to grieve
For Jeany; but Jeany will me not relieve.
O Jeany, thine Eyes, as a Dart, wound my Breast,
And still they torment me, and rob me of Rest.
The Smiles of thy Countenance captivates me;
And grieves me that I have not Merit for thee.
But since you are single, this makes me presume
To tell you, I love, yet I blush, and am dumb:
So soon as I see you, I stand in Amaze,
And all my Affections are turn'd to a Blaze.
Oh! had I a Kingdom, there's none should be Queen;
There's none I could fancy, but thee, my sweet Jean.
Yet, oh! it sore grieves me, to think that on me
You seem not to smile, 'cause I merit not thee.
O! could my Affections incline thee to love,
And grant me one Smile, my Fears would remove;
And, like a true Lover, yield my Heart to thee:
Dear Jeany have Pity, and fancy poor me.
But, if you reject me, my Heart it will break;
There's none can relieve me, alive; for thy Sake,
I, as a true Lover, will constant remain,
And mourn with the Turtle, and greatly complain.
If you so disdain me, perhaps you will rue;
You may get a Lover; but yet unto you
He'll not prove so kind, my Dear, as poor me;
For fondly I love, tho' I merit not thee.
O now, my dear Jeany, delight not to prove
Disdainful, to break the poor Heart of thy Love.
Sure thou art too fair, so cruel to be,
Tho' I have not Merit, dear JEANY, for thee.

SONG XXVI. CUPID's CHALLENGE.

SONG XXVII. The BANKS of TAY.

Upon seeing a Satire against Mr. Allan Ramsay.

That splenatick, lunatick Fellow,
With Chandler-Chafts, and Brain so shallow;
R---K--- I mean, who dares t'abuse
The Favourites of our blithsome Muse;
Especially bright Ramsay, who
Broad Britain praise, and Hundreds mo'.
Says he, A Poet's nothing worth,
That City-Vices shews not forth.
But, if he had one Grain of Sense,
He'd see his Poem on Lucky Spence.
A Satire sharp on Whores and Bawds;
And Scriblers lash'd, lash all such Blades
That grudge or grumble at what he says,
At Poems, or Pastorals, or fine Plays.
His Poem on Health, all Men may see
A Satire plain on Gluttonie.
His Tale of Bonnets doth declare
What here to mention I forbear.
As for his Fables, and Love-Songs,
No Wit can challenge in them Wrongs,
Except R---K--- fill'd with Envy,
Who 'gainst all honest Things doth cry.
The charming fair Ones cannot pass
His Calumny upon their Dress.
The very Church-men, and the Judges.
In short, at every Thing he grudges.
A melancholly sow'r-mouth'd Block;
At all harmonious Things doth mock.
A Tipe of Hell, himself tormenting;
At every pleasant Thing lamenting.
Rise, great Apollo, in thine Ire,
And crush him down to PLUTO's Fire;
Whence all his Party cannot budge him,
Till Radamanthus come and judge him;
And there appoint him, for's Abuse,
Sisyphus's endless Toil to use;
And all that party him, for ever,
A better Fate befal them never.

An ACROSTICK.

An ACROSTICK on the Death of a Pious MAID.